


Gunmetal Bones

by Bamf (reticentrail)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: And I get very tired, And disregard it entirely as I so please, Because I love a lot about DC, Because I'm going into this without a plan, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, But DC is also frustrating and convoluted as hell, Jason Todd-centric, Other, Rated For Violence, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, The major character death is Jason's, The timeline here may or may not be chronological, but he's trying his best, he gets better though, i cherry pick canon, like fools do, rated for language, sometimes anyway, you know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:00:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reticentrail/pseuds/Bamf
Summary: Batman was right, of course. His emotionsdidcost him, but Jason would argue that any training or lack thereof had shit all to do with it. No amount of training in the world could have prepared him for staring down the barrel of Sheila’s gun. Despite his skills, Jason can’t control what other people decide to do to him. He couldn’t control his mother’s betrayal, and he sure as hell can’t control the Joker. Not his arms as they swing down to connect the crowbar with his already broken body. Not his damn laugh. Not a damn thing.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title lifted from the poem "Please, let him be happy" by [pencap](https://pencap.tumblr.com/post/152685439505/please-let-him-be-soft-i-know-you-made-him) on tumblr.

Jason has picked up a fair share of skills while living in Park Row. Whether in Willis' ramshackle apartment with his mother or on the derelict streets of Crime Alley itself. The list included a few staples - how to cook an egg in just about every conceivable way known to man with only a spatula and a too-sticky skillet, for example. How to pick rusty old locks on abandoned storage units near the docks, even in a pinch, for another. 

Basic shit. Maybe not always the kind of skills the other kids on the street would envy, but definitely the type that might convince the adults that his services were worth paying for. When payment meant the difference between a meal or going hungry, Jason knew better than to hold out on anything. He'd think about it, sometimes, on days it gets real bad. He'd hole up in one of his better hideouts and pull his weathered hoodie as tight around his frame as it could stretch, promising himself that _never again, fucking never, ever again_. 

After the agony of the first few days of skipped meals starts to settle in, after it starts getting harder to think and move and just live, he'd settle back into the routine anyway. 

He can't control what other people decide to do to him, whether they feel like kicking his teeth in or playing 'nice' in ways that make his skin crawl. What he can control is whether or not he puts in the work that gives him the means to eat that day. He needs to eat to stay tough, and he needs to keep tough to live. And he'll damned do just about anything to keep living.

Living in some rich dude's castle on a hill doesn't sound like something that would give him much in the way of new skills.

Spoiled, vain asshats who pay other people to cover all their responsibilities so they can spend their time going to vapid parties and wasting more cash on useless shit they'll discard or forget within the week. But Bruce isn't like that, not always. Because Bruce is Batman, and Batman spends most of his time underneath the hill instead of on it. It's Batman that gives him Robin. And Robin? Robin gives Jason fucking _magic_.

He learns a hell of a lot more than he ever did on the streets. More than he could have, even if he knew he wanted to. Some of its even more practical than he would have expected out of a creep who hangs around unlit alleys in a big 'ole bat costume. Math, science, history, and even chemistry. Other stuff has him feeling more like he's prepping for a worldwide apocalypse than a pop quiz. 

"Any one of these skills could be the difference between life and death," Batman had said, the steady weight of his gaze heavy on Jason's shoulders even through the cowl. "Always prepare ahead when you can, so you can be ready for the unexpected when it happens. And it will happen." 

It had taken him a long time to grapple with that sentiment. What the hell could catch the fucking _Batman_ unawares? He learns, though, and keeps learning. He's hungry for it, devouring every scrap of information tossed to him, practicing every new skill until he knows it by heart. And then Batman makes sure his muscles remember more quickly and surely than his heart ever could. Many of the new skills that Jason tucks away in his arsenal aren't ones that come naturally. It's bitter and frustrating work, and even when he keeps chipping away at a problem, he's still not always the best. It might be his personal best, but some days, it's not good enough to just have a personal best. 

Bruce Wayne disappears behind cold white lenses, and Jason hits the mat hard. "Again," a sharp voice commands over the slight ringing in his ears as he rolls to his knees. "Again," he hits the mat just as hard as the first time. "Again," the ringing in his ears is a little louder. "Again," he's starting to feel nauseous. The next time he hears the sharp voice, he lashes out at it wildly. Batman - _Bruce_ is disappointed, he tells him. He'd forgotten his training in the face of his emotions, his anger. It's been costing him out on the field, and someday it might cost him everything. 

Batman was right, of course.

His emotions _did_ cost him, but Jason would argue that any training or lack thereof had shit all to do with it. No amount of training in the world could have prepared him for staring down the barrel of Sheila's gun.

Despite his skills, Jason can't control what other people decide to do to him. He couldn't control his mother's betrayal, and he sure as hell can't control the joker. Not his arms as they swing down to connect the crowbar with his already broken body. Not his damn laugh. Not a damn thing. What he can control are his own actions. Vision swimming, he rolls to his knees, everything aching so bad that he almost forgets to breathe. And he tries. He's not so good at things all the time, but he'll be damned if he doesn't give it his best shot anyway. He needs to stay tough because tough will keep him living. Living just long enough to reach his mom. Just enough to untie her bindings even as his efforts make them slick and red. Just enough… 

It’s not enough. Sheila's voice is high and panicked as his eyes focus on the timer. He wonders, the thought barely registering as it flits through his consciousness, if Bruce will be disappointed.

If you asked him later, years after the ash and smoke have been weathered out of the debris, Jason would say that honest to god, he hadn't even felt it that much.

There was a point in there where Jason was looking at himself from the outside in. As if his body had objected so strongly to what it was going through that it picked up his very soul by the scruff and tossed it out. He was no longer the subject of the pain, merely an unobtrusive observer, watching the end of a play unfold as Death herself kept him company until curtains.

Unequivocally the opposite of what he felt when he next wakes. And he does, unexpectedly, wake up. He wakes up screaming.

Jason has learned all sorts of skills in his brief life. There are a lot of basics, of course, but there are also those apocalypse-ready odd-balls. Such as throwing his voice across the room in that way ventriloquists do. Or the basics of how to escape if he ever finds himself buried alive.

He's not always the very best at implementing all the skills he's learned, even if they're life-saving ones. He's not Batman. He panics just as bad as any other kid off the curb. But he is _Robin_ , and Robin trained damn hard to be able to put his best foot forward anyway, to be _magic_. He doesn't just know it by heart. It's instinct, radiating from his very bones.

His buckle gives way, and his fingernails, but there's torn fabric and the promising splintering of wood. The feeling of wood slivers catching on already raw and bloodied wounds makes him sick. The adrenaline makes his head feel light and distant, even as each new push of his arm grounds him to brutal, jarring reality.

He wishes, really fucking _wishes_ , this wasn't reality. But it is, here, now, happening. The present offers his rapidly beating heart no solace, and he pushes through panic and fear to keep moving because he needs to keep living. He chokes on it, his heart, the dirt. He keeps moving.

Out of the earth, the electric first breath of open air, each agonizing lift of his legs. He'll do anything to get out, to get away, to find _Bruce_. 

_He needs to find Bruce_.

The next time he wakes up, an EMT says he's lucky. Jason doesn't hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hello there! I've never posted anything on AO3 before. I've also never posted anything DC related before this. In fact, I haven't posted anything anywhere In what has probably been like 7 years! Suffice to say... constructive criticism is extremely welcome. Actively encouraged, even! So very, very, very encouraged. Please send help.
> 
> If you have suggestions or things you want to see in this story going forward, please comment down below!
> 
> Thanks to anyone who happens across this and decides to give it a read.


	2. Chapter 2

He'll admit it, readily, to anyone who calls him out on it. He won't even take it as criticism all that often. Jason Todd is a dramatic son of a bitch.

Batman is a lot of things, but a goddamn idiot isn't one of them. His whole "I am the night" shtick might have him running about in pointy ears and throwing around bat-themed paraphernalia in the middle of the night, but it works, and it works damn well for the most part. The first few years the bat took to the streets of Gotham, he wasn't human, fallible and vulnerable in the face of a well-aimed gun or a solid right-hook. He was a myth. A story to share in hushed voices, huddled around a dying garbage fire, wondering if the massive drug trade taking place at the corner of 8th was going to ruin because it strayed too close to shadows no man's eyes could quite adjust to. 

It was showmanship, catered to the cowards and superstitious crooks who thought to profit in a city who routinely lived her days on the precipice of ruin.

One of many things he'd learned while under the bat's wing. 

Now, a duffle bag full of severed heads might not be the kind of theatrics the rest of Gotham's vigilante squad cared to employ, but it sure made for one hell of an impression. Unlike his ex-mentor, Jason didn't have the time to cultivate the same sort of intangible, mythic status Batman had once been shrouded in. He had too much shit to do and better ways to spend his time.

The kind of people scared by Batman were the kind of scumbags who would jump at the sound of an alley cat rattling a bin. Spineless dirt worms anyone could run off with a big enough gun and a mean glare. The real crazies had a healthy concern of dark knight, sure, but more because he messed up otherwise smooth operations than any worry over their personal well-being or the chance of being dragged down to hell by some spirit of vengeance. The myth was old, the bat merely a man, and one just as susceptible to pain and injury as every other mortal. 

One who was so against putting them in the ground he'd even risk his own skin dragging them out of the skillet to boot. Fucker.

Red Hood, on the other hand? He'd have every damn one of them pushing daisies before the year was out if things went his way. Mortal as he may be, he could do what Batman never could. Never _would_. He'd put fear into the hearts of the god-forsaken scumbags and bullets into the heads of those that thought they didn't have anything to fear. He couldn't stop the ruin. But he'd control it.

Those sorts of bastards rarely changed, and those that could weren't worth the chance. Was he supposed to feel bad about even putting down a goddamn _nazi_? 

_“Nooo!”_

The shock and mild horror Batman had been radiating over the death abated by the time Jason - _Red Hood_ \- scaled the wall towards the fire escape. In its place was an impassive mask of professional distance and self-righteous indignation. 

That's how it always was, of course. Can't risk showing a real, honest emotion once in a while. Not when there's work to do. Not for the bat. It didn't matter what the hell was happening. The asshole probably did just the same when Jason had died. He wouldn’t have spent time _feeling_ for Jason, Robin, his _dead kid_. He'd just gone back to fucking work. Another miserable day on the job with nothing to show for it. 

Jason had given Batman every opportunity. 

No. He’d given _Bruce_ every opportunity. The man who, more than the city's knight, was supposed to be his _father_. The opportunity to do something, be a little fucking regretful that a kid he was meant to protect had ended up a brutalized, bloody mess, six feet under before he'd ever really had the opportunity to grow up. To even just show a little feeling, maybe.

He hadn't even been counting that hard on Batman avenging him. Bruce wasn't a killer, Jason knew that, but he'd expected something. That Batman would, at the very _least_ , make sure the psychotic fucking clown didn't do to anybody else what he'd done to Jason. 

Maybe the whole show-down setup was a little dramatic. So what? Sue him.

It's not like his current company wasn't used to performances. The Joker and the Batman had been dancing for decades, the theatrics getting wilder, the body count getting longer. A big damn game. 

Nobody got into this type of business without engaging in a bit of flair. And he wanted it. He needed it, the dramatics, the attention. He needed Bruce to _see_ him. Because this was it. This was the last opportunity he'd grant him. 

This time, he _was_ in control. He could wipe the smile right off that pasty-faced, demented fool's ugly mug. Put a bullet right through his head here and now, even. And he could make the Batman finally make a damn choice. 

He accepted it. Dying, that is. 

Shit happens. Jason wasn't about to blame Bruce for failing to save him, for only coming after he'd had time to choke on the smoke, to hold Sheila's dying body and be unable to save either of them.

It wasn't the tale Batman would spin in the years following his death, but it could be said that Jason was a true hero up until the very end. A good Robin.  
His own mother had turned him over to the Joker just to keep her name clean, taking a leisurely smoke as the Joker snapped and shattered pieces of him he didn't even know he could break. And after all of it, after the Joker turned on her too, he'd still tried to save her.

He wouldn't have had the chance to really know, but he'd made a difference with her. She'd regretted it. Acknowledged his efforts to save her, how good he tried to be, that he'd deserved better. She'd changed mere miserable moments before she died in that wreck.

And maybe that could have meant something if he'd lived through it.

But he didn't. Not really, anyway. Was giving Sheila the chance to change worth the life of a fifteen-year-old kid? Was it worth the torture, each agonizing minute at the mercy of a homicidal madman? How many more would have to die to give these fuckers their second chances? Their third, fourth, and fifth chances? Didn't the innocents who lay slain at their feet and filling Gotham's cemeteries deserve a chance too? And who was anyone to say that they didn't deserve the damn chance more than the murderers, rapists, abusers, and other shitbags out there?

If Batman wouldn't give them that chance, Red Hood would, or die fucking trying.

A clear choice. A, B, or C. Batman could shoot the Joker, kill the fucker dead, and finally put a stop to the senseless and barbaric violence that followed his every step. He could shoot Jason, right in the goddamn face, and stop him from razing the city of its countless despicable and irredeemable evils. Or he could sit back, do nothing, and let Jason splatter clown's brains on the wall himself.

He thought… despite it all, he really thought, for once. Just once, Bruce would choose him. Would choose _Jason_. That if nothing else, at the very least, the Joker wouldn't be leaving the building alive that night. That he'd never be able to kill, maim, or cripple another person again.

And maybe, _just maybe_ , Jason would have to do it himself, and Bruce would never be able to forgive him for it. He could live with that. It’d hurt, but damn it, he could _live_ with it.

He never saw the batarang coming.

His gun clattered to the floor as Jason fell, one hand flailing to grab at his gushing neck, knees hitting the ground hard. The laughter was back, loud and sharp in his ear, and it wouldn't fucking stop. It wouldn’t fucking _stop_.

He hadn't even thought it was an option.

For the second time in his still too-short life, everything goes out with a bang and smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone happens to know how to do those page breaks people sometimes use, I would _love_ to know! Html, man...


End file.
